


You've Gotta be (Psych)idding Me

by direwolfdemigod



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Jane Bennet/Charles Bingley, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Modern Retelling, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-27 10:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18736795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/direwolfdemigod/pseuds/direwolfdemigod
Summary: Lizzie's future seeing skills are admittedly a lot better than her people skills. Then again, she's pretty sure he started it when he walked into her store and went around claiming that she's a scammer with a bullshit profession. Yeah, he definitely started it. OR the one where Lizzie is a psychic and Darcy really doesn't believe in that shit. Modern AU.





	1. Only Time will Tell

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on FF.net, but when I got an account on ao3, I figured that I'd bring it over here. I hope everyone likes it! The psychic stuff is mostly based on Maggie Stiefvater's series The Raven Cycle.

_(Lizzie)_

The future is a funny thing. Everyone spends so much time trying to prepare for it, control it, understand it, predict it. But the only thing that truly _knows_ the future is the future itself. It’s the runner at the head of the race, always two steps ahead.

Lizzie Bennet likes to think that she’s one of the few people that can interpret the vague and elusive nature of time. _She_ knows that time is a circle, not a line, spinning around and around until it settles on a narrative it likes, a narrative that the people within it spiral into. _She_ understands that the future and past are fragile and tangible things, breaking and bending to the whims of those around it. _She_ remembers that the future is a promise, not a guarantee. Promises can be broken.

And yet, with all her otherworldly knowledge, idiots like the one standing in front of her still feel the need to doubt her.

“No offense, but psychic powers are usually… a farce.”

_No offense, but you look like you belong in a shitty version of ‘The Wolf of Wall Street’._

The teenage girl standing next to him shoots him a wary look, momentarily pulled away from the homemade essences she had been drawn to originally. Lizzie bites her tongue and gives the stranger a cursory once over. He’s wearing slacks and an Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing strong, tan forearms. She doesn’t need to be a psychic to guess that he’s an asshole.

_He’s also really hot._

_(She’s really unimpressed with the lack of correlation between physical attractiveness and positive personality traits. The world isn’t a fair place.)_

“You realize that you basically just said ‘no offense, but I think you’re scamming people out of their money’? How _exactly_ am I supposed to not be offended by that?”

The girl sighs in exasperation, “Can’t we do one thing without you pissing off a random stranger?”

Lizzie feels an odd surge of affection for the girl that she hadn’t previously expected. Then again, she _had_ sensed a positive aura when the two walked in, she just hadn’t been sure which one of them was emitting it. Now she’s definitely sure that it isn’t coming from _him_.

“Stay out of this Georgy,” the guy snaps before turning back on Lizzie. “Look, I’m _trying_ to be polite. I just don’t believe in what you do.”

“A murderer in a nice suit is still a murderer.”

“That’s a terrible analogy.”

Lizzie scoffs, “Whatever, the point stands. Just ‘cause you dress your bigotry in a bow doesn’t make it okay.”

“It’s hardly bigotry when most psychics _actually_ scam people out of their money. That’s called statistics.”

“So you’re telling me that _statistics_ give you the right to come into my store and insult my career choice?”

“First off, career is a bit of a strong word-”

“Do you get off on being condescending?”

“ _Secondly_ , statistics give me a right to be wary of people trying to take advantage of me.”

“I’m pretty sure profiling works off of the same logic.”

“You’re kidding,” he says blankly, “the difference is people can’t choose their skin colour. You can choose your job.”

“I didn’t choose to be a psychic.”

“ _Oh_ , so we’re going off of the assumption that you actually have spooky psychic powers? Hang on, let me recalculate my line of argumentation.”

“Fuck you,” Lizzie says with a saccharine smile. Then she swivels to face the girl, “Can I help you.”

Her face lightens up a little in response, but before she can respond, the guy butts in again, “I get it. Now that you’ve realized you’re not going to get any money out of me, you’re turning to my kid sister. _Real_ ethical.”

_She’s going to wring him with her bare hands._

(Un)fortunately, his sister decides to step in before Lizzie murders him. “Please Will, I’m not a kid,” she says breezily, “could you try _not_ being a dick for once in your life?”

He scowls, “Don’t swear.”

“It’s not swearing if I’m referring to you by your middle name,” she flashes him a wicked smile and turns to Lizzie, “I’m actually interested in a tarot reading.”

“Sure-”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You’re no fun,” she pouts, “I’ll even pay for it myself.”

He laughs, “It’s not paying for yourself if you get your allowance from me. Besides, it’s not about that. It’s about the principle.”

“The principle being sticking to your guns when you’re being an ignorant dipshit?” Lizzie raises an eyebrow. “You’re a stellar role model.”

“No,” he rolls his eyes and speaks slowly, like she’s a child, “the principle is that I don’t give money to scammers with shit customer service.”

Lizzie feels her temper rising, but purses her lips and makes sure her voice is level in order to keep her cool, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“You’re kicking me out,” it’s a question, but it comes out as a statement.

Instead of answering, she turns to the girl (Georgy?) and smiles warmly, “I can do a tarot reading now or some other time as long as _he’s_ out of my general vicinity.”

At that, the guy laughs sardonically and brushes past her to stalk towards the door. But when his arm skims hers, something weird happens. A sensation spreads through her entire body, like she’s suddenly been set on fire. Her mind flashes, an image of hands on skin, tugging at her waist, teeth nipping at her lips, dragging a heady moan out of her mouth. The scene changes to Georgy laughing loudly as she jumps into a pool, her cannonball formation spraying Lizzie with water before Georgy reaches up to pull her in too.

But she doesn’t only see her two customers. She feels Jane across town, planning her upcoming charity event. Her eyes flash to her mother’s house, where the woman stands in the center of the room, performing a ritual for onlookers all around. Then she catches a glimpse of the people walking on the sidewalk in front of her shop, the acute feeling of… irritation taking over her body as she looks from them to her sister back in the shop, still talking to _that woman_ who seems intent on exploiting her-

Lizzie snaps out of it, her eyes flying open to the girl standing in front of her.

_What the fuck just happened?_

She blinks slowly and looks around the room before looking back to Georgy, trying to gauge if she’s disoriented in any way by what just happened. The girl looks fine though, a little put off by the immature behaviour of her brother, but otherwise completely tethered to reality.

_Lizzie shouldn't have expected anything different. Others never see._

Georgy is grimacing when she looks over at her, “I’m sorry about him, he’s just…” she trails off and looks over to where he’s waiting for her by the door, “the worst.”

That brings Lizzie back to the present and she laughs lightly, “That’s an understatement.” If anything, the pained look on Georgy’s face grows stronger at the comment, like she wants the ground to swallow her whole.

_Lizzie can sympathize. She’s had quite a few I-wish-the-ground-would-swallow-me moments._

“He’s actually not as bad as he seems,” she starts, but quickly realizes by the look on Lizzie’s face that there’s really no use in defending him. “Anyway, I’ll stop by sometime for a tarot reading. Without him.”

Lizzie nods approvingly before relenting a little, “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to skeptics.”

She thinks of her mother, faux psychic extraordinaire.

_She almost doesn’t blame him for his doubts. Almost._

She huffs out another sigh, “Sure, but he has this nasty habit of thinking that the world actually cares about his shitty opinions,” Lizzie laughs out loud at that, surprising even herself. Georgy gives her an award winning smile before turning towards the door. Lizzie takes the hint and heads back to the counter, arranging a set of lighters with cheesy inspirational quotes twisted around to make puns. She tries really hard to distract herself and not look back at the guy or think about the guy or analyse what the guy’s touch did to her.

 _She just doesn’t understand how someone like_ him _could bring on such a strong connection to the spiritual world._

She’s just finished adjusting a lighter that says ‘you’re a-MAZE-ing’ with a little design of a maze in the background when she hears it.

“You’re not coming back to this crap shack.”

She looks over to the door where Georgy catches her eye and gives a little wave before saying, “Like you could stop me.”

Lizzie simultaneously feels the need to either laugh out loud or punch something as hard as she possibly can.


	2. The Universe Hates Lizzie Bennet

_(Lizzie)_

Lizzie’s been able to _see_ for as long as she can remember.

She started talking to ghosts at four. It was mostly an accident, a whisper heard while walking past a cemetery. Her innate childish curiosity dragged both her and Jane into a garden full of dead people which led to a few rather odd but pleasant friendships with several people who had passed on. Although, when she tried to contact some of their living relatives, they were significantly less impressed with her newly acquired skill.

At six, she was accidentally scarred for life when she touched a pillow in Jane’s room that had been associated with her first kiss. After Jane got over the blatant invasion of privacy, she helped Lizzie research a rare skill called psychometry that allowed her to produce specific details about a person’s life by touching them or an object that was linked to a memory. She spent six months after that snooping around her mother’s room.

_Even back then, she had not had the slightest interest in her younger sister’s lives._

By the time she was eight, she had a pack of tarot cards, a scrying bowl, and a set of lithomancy stones that she was still pretty bad at using. But her abilities were growing stronger, as was her mother’s interest in exploiting them. Her memory of the next ten years would consist of going to school, convincing people of her mother’s mystical powers after school, and sitting in her room, figuring out ways to become stronger after that.

The memories of sceptics, insults and even death threats aimed at her powers are almost worse than those of how her mother used her.

_But just because she’s used to people doubting her doesn’t mean that it hurts any less when they do._

* * *

 

“Why are we here?

Jane shoots her an exasperated look, “Charlie _likes_ this place.”

If Lizzie were Jane, that would be a huge red flag, “Is Charlie a mob boss?”

Jane stares at the napkin that used to be arranged in a fancy shape (maybe a swan?) but has now been viciously mutilated by a bored Elizabeth Bennet.

_Truly one of the world’s most dangerous creatures._

“Not every fancy restaurant is a hotbed for crime.”

“Of course not,” Lizzie scoffs, “but every fancy, sleazy, _Italian_ restaurant definitely is.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

She’s really not though. The place looks straight out of _The Godfather_ , for Christ’s sake! Tacky tiled floor? Check.  Open bar? Check. Round tables with excessively long tablecloths and wiry chairs? Check. Lizzie’s pretty sure that before the end of the night, she’s going to get shot through the window for some vendetta for a crime she can’t even remember committing.

_At least the martinis are good._

“Charlie as a mob boss,” Jane snickers, “he calls _me_ to kill spiders.”

“No one will ever see it coming.”

Jane shakes her head and smiles, “He works for the _government_ , Lizzie. That’s like the opposite of being a criminal.”

“Untrue,” Lizzie points a finger at her. “That NSA shit was crazy. Has he been spying on me?”

“ _Your_ job is basically spying on people.”

“It’s not spying if it’s consensual.”

Unimpressed, she raises an eyebrow, “Remember my first kiss?”

Lizzie grimaces, “Don’t bring it up. I’ve seriously considered bleaching my brain to wipe out that memory.”

“What memory?”

Her sister stands up gracefully and Lizzie follows her lead, turning towards the unfamiliar voice that just came from behind them.

“Hey Charlie,” she gives him a quick kiss on the cheek and Lizzie’s briefly afraid that his smile might just blind everyone in the restaurant.

He turns to Lizzie, “You must be the great Elizabeth Bennet. I’ve heard pretty much everything there is to know about you.”

Lizzie shakes his hand and smiles, “Apparently not since you don’t know which memory I had to bleach out.”

He gives her a pained look, “I’m guessing that I don’t want to know.”

They all take their seats again and she shrugs nonchalantly, “Maybe not, but you already asked so I’m going to tell you anyway. I touched a pillow in Jane’s room and saw her first kiss. It was… exactly what you’d expect it to be: disgustingly sweet. The guy even asked her if it was okay before he did it!”

“Heaven forbid he do that!” Charlie exclaims in mock horror, ignoring her brief reference to her psychic skill. “I take it your experience was a little different.”

Lizzie’s mind flashes back to the completely unwanted lips of Billy Collins pressed up against her own in second grade.

_A memory she will (unfortunately) never be able to wipe out._

“You could say that.”

Suddenly, Jane looks at Charlie like she’s remembered something important, “Where’s Will?”

“He had to take a call. You can call him Darcy-”

At that moment, Lizzie notices a man walk into the restaurant and completely stops listening to Charlie. He’s obnoxiously over dressed, sporting a business suit that he was probably born in, brown hair casually styled, clear blue eyes searching the place for something or _someone_. Lizzie’s definitely irritated by how attractive she finds him because he also just happens to be the asshat that waltzed into her store a week ago. Then, his eyes meet hers and his confident stride falters. His eyebrows raise as he looks between her and Charlie as they both put two and two together at the same time.

_What did she do to the Universe to deserve this?!_

The man just stands there for a moment before walking over in a hilariously reluctant way, shoulders pinned back rigidly, lips pressed into a thin line and eyes firmly fixed on Charlie. When he gets to the table, he gives Jane a forced smile and sticks out his arm, “Hello, I’m Will Darcy.”

“Jane Bennet,” she gestures towards Lizzie, “and this is my sister, Elizabeth Bennet.”

She doesn’t bother telling him to call her Lizzie like she usually would. Instead, there’s a drawn out silence as both of them size each other up. She quickly realizes that he probably doesn’t want to mention what happened between them. Which means Lizzie _definitely_ wants to mention it.

“Hey dipshit. How’s it hanging?”

“ _Lizzie_!”

She doesn’t bother acknowledging her sister’s distress or Charlie’s confusion. Her eyes stay on Darcy’s to gauge his reaction. To her surprise, he rolls his eyes and sits down, clearly more comfortable now that he knows how to play the situation. He seems fine with the choice she’s made for their relationship: blatantly hostile.

 _He_ let _her make the choice._

_(But why?)_

A silence stretches on as Lizzie continues to stare at Darcy, who picks up a menu and starts perusing the options. The indifference makes her blood boil.

The tension is interrupted by Charlie, “You two know each other?”

“ _Know_ is a strong word,” he winces, but other than that he gives no indication of recognizing her reference to their previous conversation. She pushes harder, “I’m sure _Darcy_ is more than happy to explain.”

He finally puts down his menu and shoots her a look, but sighs and says, “Georgy dragged me into her shop a week ago.”

“ _Dragged_ being the keyword there,” she adds with a nasty smile, “but he seems to have forgotten to mention that he insulted me and I kicked him out.”

Charlie gapes at him, “Please tell me you haven’t _already_ pissed off my girlfriend’s sister.”

Darcy ignores him, eyes glued to Lizzie, “Having a different opinion than yours is not an insult.”

“It is when your opinion is that I scam people out of their money!”

Jane touches her arm gently, “I’d rather not end this night with an assault charge.”

_At this point, she’s convinced that punching Will Darcy in his stupidly attractive face would actually be a public service._

“He started it,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes but relaxing back into her chair.

“Real mature,” Darcy says under his breath. He’s gone back to analysing the menu with studied disinterest.

Here’s the thing: Lizzie totally knows that she’s acting like a petulant child. But something about Will _fucking_ Darcy gets on her fucking nerves. He seems to be the very definition of _that guy_. The asshat that wears a suit like it’s a second skin. The entitled douchebag that walks into every room like he owns it. The bratty customer that feels they have the right to insult her in her very own store.

_And also, the kind of guy she’d like to take down a peg by showing him just how many ways she can make him come apart._

So yeah, the man sitting in front of her seems to fit all the criteria of _that guy_. And he’s her sister’s boyfriend’s best friend.

_Great. Just great._

But when she looks over at Jane, she’s giving her that earnest look; a silent plea to behave. And God knows that Lizzie can’t deny her sister anything.

So she sighs internally before looking at Charlie, “So Charlie, what do you do?”

“I work for the government.”

“NSA?” Oh come on, she has to have _some_ fun.

Jane shoots her a panicked look, but Charlie just laughs, “No, I’m not spying on you.” He shrugs when Jane gives him an odd look, “You’d be surprised how often it comes up.”

Lizzie asks another question, which leads Charlie to launch into some mildly funny work story that keeps the table relatively relaxed as they order their food. Darcy remains silent for the most part, but every once in a while, Lizzie catches him looking at her like he knows her, but doesn’t know how. Lizzie tries really hard to ignore it.

She keeps an unnecessarily close eye on Charlie, though. Jane’s a little too kind and trusting for her own good, so no risks can be taken when screening her potential suitors.

_And yes, she’s aware that she sounds like an old time father trying to sell off his daughter. But she’s just protective so everyone can go ahead and fuck right off, thanks._

Unfortunately, her position as ‘advice giving little sister’ is rendered useless by the fact that Charlie is literally _perfect_ for Jane. And not that kind of crap perfect where people accept each other, flaws and all, in the movies. No. He’s _real perfect_. It’s a little freaky if she’s being honest. He’s cheery and a little funny, but not in a purposeful or offensive way. He works for the Civil Rights Division of the Department of Justice, which is exactly the kind of thing Jane’s boyfriend should do since she runs a charity. He even smiles too much, but the smiles are usually aimed at Jane and filled with so much admiration and adoration that Lizzie manages not to puke from the frequency. All in all, Charlie Bingley is a little bit ridiculous, a little cute, and decidedly Jane’s type.

What really gets her though is the fact that his aura is so strong and kind that she can’t help but think it means good things to come for their relationship. In fact, it’s a little like the impression she originally got from Darcy’s sister. It’s funny how well first impressions can reflect someone’s true personality.

But Charlie’s also… a little boring. Which is the _only_ reason why she turns to Darcy once he’s finished his story.

_It’s definitely not because she’s interested in talking to him or anything._

“So suit boy,” Lizzie drawls, “what blatantly immoral job do you perform on the daily?”

For a moment, he looks a little surprised that she’s talking to him. Then he processes her question and an irritated look crosses his face, “Wearing a suit hardly indicates that what I do is immoral.”

Lizzie scrunches her nose, “Yeah, but in your case, I feel like it does. Take your pick: executive at some soul sucking oil company or investment banker at some soul sucking Wall Street company.”

Charlie’s laugh rings out before Will can answer, cutting through the tension like a knife, “Close. He’s actually a corporate lawyer.”

“Wow, and you had the balls to call _my_ job exploitative? That’s next level.”

He rolls his eyes, something he seems to do a lot around her, “At least people know that I’m actually a lawyer when they hire me because I have a _degree_ ,” he cocks his head mockingly, “does Harvard offer a _psychic_ degree?”

“No because, believe it or not, most people that go to Harvard aren’t smart enough to be psychics,” she looks him up and down exaggeratedly, “yourself included.”

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Jane squeaks, “Lizzie, come with?

She knows that Jane is just trying to keep the situation from escalating, but she’s annoyed by the request nonetheless. It’s probably because she wants to show Darcy that she’s not just some batshit crazy college dropout running a failing business to keep the lights on. Because she’s so much more than that and for some reason, she _needs_ him to know that.

 _She shouldn’t care so much about his opinion. She_ doesn’t _._

_(Liar.)_

Lizzie nods and stands quickly, barely sparing a glance back at the table as her and Jane walk to the bathrooms that are situated around the nearest corner. Once they’re in the cozy, dimly lit room, Jane steps into the nearest stall.

“Wait, you actually have to go to the bathroom?”

“Yeah,” Jane replies, “but I also need you to stop provoking Darcy.

“Why should I?” she examines her appearance in the mirror, long patterned skirt and white lace top clashing horribly with the vintage Italian feel of the place. “He’s a dick, you saw it yourself.”

“Actually, he’s pretty quiet,” Jane says thoughtfully, “you’re jumping to conclusions. Tons of sane, good people are skeptical of psychics.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have to be rude about it.”

She hears her sister sigh, “Then do it for my sake. Please.”

Lizzie hesitates, but then nods despite the fact that Jane can’t see it, “Fine.”

“Thank you,” Jane says, “You can head back to the table if you want. Try to be friendly.”

“Yeah whatever,” she says as she steps out of the bathroom and back to the table, eager to get a look at the dessert menu. She’s about to wrap around the corner when she hears Charlie say something that makes her stop dead in her tracks.

“You like her.”

The somewhat immoral need to know everything sparks up within her. She presses herself against the wall to avoid being seen.

Darcy scoffs, “That’s insane. And as a matter of fact, so is she. She’s a fucking _psychic_ , for God’s sake. She’s a whackjob, straight out of a nuthouse.”

“That’s rude,” Charlie snaps, “and I think she’s more than that. She’s pretty cute too.”

“She’s average at best. Anyways, crazy people aren’t really my type”

_Fuck him and his entitled pretty boy attitude. If he wants crazy, he’ll get fucking crazy._

“Whatever man,” Charlie replies, “I can tell when you’re interested in someone and you’re _definitely_ interested in Elizabeth Bennet.”

Lizzie doesn’t get to hear his response, “Please tell me you’re not spying on my boyfriend and his best friend. It’s just called stalking if you’re not a spy.”

For a brief second, she considers telling Jane what she just heard, but quickly decides against it. Jane’s rather angelic view of the world is something that Lizzie hates to break if she can help it.

“I just had to check my phone. Didn’t want to do it at the table.”

Jane nods, clearly relieved. Lizzie’s only a little surprised that she bought her fake excuse. Then again, people will usually believe what they want to be true, even if the signs are clearly pointing to something else.

Lizzie grabs at the dessert menu instead of making conversation when they get back to their seats. Her plans on studying it in detail are promptly interrupted by Charlie, who seems determined to ruin her plans.

“What does your shop sell?”

She tenses instinctively, but when she looks at Charlie, he seems sincere, “I mainly offer psychic services, but I also sell some stuff to help people connect to the spiritual world or better understand their relationship with time.”

“What kinds of services?”

“I do tarot and palm readings most of the time because that’s what customers like best, but I know lots of techniques that I usually practice on my own time. Sometimes it even helps develop the field. Divination is way more like a science than you’d expect.”

Next to him, Darcy tries to cover up a laugh with a cough and fails miserably. Lizzie gives him a sharp look, “Problem?”

“No…” he sobers instantly, “no of course not. Go on. What do these _different techniques_ look like?”

The way he says it bothers her more than it should, but she gives a proper response anyway “Scrying sometimes, but that’s a little sketchy so I tend to avoid it. Lithomancy stones and tea leaf readings are safer and more standardized. Sometimes I do psychometry, but it’s hard to find willing participants.”

Jane groans, “Not everyone wants to trust _you_ with the responsibility of keeping their deepest, darkest secrets.”

“ _Please_. Responsibility is my middle name.”

“You literally told Charlie about my first kiss an hour ago.”

“That’s irrelevant” she dismisses with a wave of her hand, “I’d be much better with clients.”

“I’m willing,” Charlie says, smile bright and open.

“ _What?_ ” Jane and Darcy say at the same time.

“That’s great!” Lizzie exclaims. “This is going to be so much fun.”

Charlie nods, meeting Lizzie’s enthusiasm.

Darcy, on the other hand, seems less than eager, “You don’t even know what that is.”

He shrugs, “I trust Lizzie.”

_He’s so perfect for Jane._

“It’s not painful or anything. I just have to touch you or an object you’ve associated a memory with. But we should do it in my store. The energy will be better there.”

“Of course it will be,” Darcy mumbles and Lizzie gives him a venomous look.

“I could do a tarot reading too if you’d like,” she says, turning back to Charlie, “customers usually like that one better because it’s more theatrical. Free of charge of course.”

“Are you sure? I can pay if you want?”

Darcy begins to protest again, but Lizzie cuts him off, “No worries. Although, if you start coming more often, I’ll have to ask for compensation.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a concern,” Darcy says, but Lizzie just ignores him.

The rest of the meal passes by peacefully and once they’re all done dessert, Lizzie grabs her purse and stands.

“Jane, you’re cool with driving us to the store?”

Jane hesitates, but then nods, “Sure.”

“Sounds great,” Charlie says, following Lizzie to the front of the restaurant.

“I assume you don’t want to go,” Lizzie gives Darcy a pointed look.

He cocks his head and considers, “I want to come.”

Lizzie raises an eyebrow at him, “Careful, you don’t want to start coming off as open-minded, do you?”

“I’m going to make sure that Charlie doesn’t lose all his money."

Lizzie gives him a tight lipped smile, “Great. Off to the nuthouse we go.”

She revels in the confused expression that crosses his face when she impulsively spits his own words back at him.

_Point for Lizzie._


	3. Three is Company, Four is a Crowd

 

****_ (Will) _

As a rule, Will Darcy is good at making room for himself.

That usually comes as a surprise to people. They tend to think that he’s cold and indifferent. Quiet and reserved. Sometimes, they even think that he’s lived his whole life with a silver spoon in his mouth and, as a result, is incapable of existing anywhere that isn’t Pemberley Manor. And for the most part (though he hates to admit it) their assumptions are true. He  _ is _ cold and reserved and he’s definitely been handed his fair share of privilege.

_ If birth is a lottery, he hit the fucking jackpot. _

But they also think that because of their other assumptions, they can safely deduce that he has no ability to adapt. Which is… honestly a little laughable considering that for most of his life, he’s been kind of an outsider. Awkwardly enough, his parents (Mr. and Mrs. William Richard Darcy Sr.) never really wanted kids in the first place, meaning that his birth was hardly the thrilling miracle of some. His childhood home was massive, but he never felt like it had enough room for  _ him _ . It was for his parents, not for him. And even when his parents were gone, leaving just him, his nanny and the maid, he could always feel the house rejecting him. He always knew that it didn’t want him there.

_ After all, three is a crowd. _

But the thing about Will is that he fights back. And back then, he fought back against his parents’ indifference, fought back against the house and the staff that treated him with an underlying layer of resentment. He refused to let loneliness define his childhood and tried to bleach out what he thought was cruel and uninviting about the place he called home. He took a good, long look at Pemberley Manor and then he found a way to carve out a place for himself.

As a kid, he would write across the walls of the house; in the bathrooms, the kitchens, his parents’ bedroom. Anywhere he could find space for himself. Once he realized that all that did was leave more work for the maids that already hated him, the walls of his room became the canvas. He smothered them with movie posters and vinyl albums and anything else he found during his extensive summer traveling. He invited friends when his parents were out (which was almost always) and together, they would try to use every room in the house, discovering some that he suspected hadn’t been used in years. He learned to cook because once he got old enough, he realized no one else was really using the kitchen for anything remotely useful. He would make meals for the staff, slowly chipping away at the resentment they felt for him. 

And then when Georgy came shortly before his mother passed away, he made sure to carve out a place for her too so she would never have to feel like he had; that’s to say, she would never have to feel  _ unwanted _ .

Over the years, he’s decided that maybe he’s just not  _ meant _ to fit in anywhere. Which is odd; as an affluent, attractive person, many would think that he should fit in just about everywhere. But that never seemed to be the case. He had to carve out a place for himself at Harvard and then again at his own father’s company, Darcy & Wickham Law. By this point, he’s almost sure that he can make a place for himself just about anywhere.

Or at least, he used to think that. But that was before he met Elizabeth Bennet. Now, standing in a dim corner of her shop, he’s no longer so sure.

_ Maybe it’s not that he can’t belong, but rather that he doesn’t want to belong here. _

But no. That’s not completely true. Sure, he doesn’t like Lizzie. He still thinks that whatever crap she’s pulling here should probably be illegal. However, after her weird comment back at the restaurant and one insanely tense drive over to her shop, he’s had a bit of a change of heart. Namely, he’s realized that if Charlie is serious about this girl ( _ which honestly, who knows, Charlie is serious about every girl _ ) then he doesn’t want to live out the rest of his life being verbally abused by her sister.

_ Which means he’s going to have to be a little nicer. God, he hates Charlie. _

He turns away from where Lizzie is explaining some cheap trick to Charlie, electing to analyse a sharp object in a glass case to his right. With his ‘limited knowledge’ ( _ he’s pretty sure Lizzie made a quip about that in the car _ ) he can only describe it as a dagger. But given the cost ( _ two hundred dollars?! _ ), he can only assume that it’s much more than a pretty thing to stab someone with. He scans the knife, which has three polished edges, all connected by gold ornamentation. Eyes drifting up, he takes in the handle, which grows thin before fanning out at the end, the metal fashioned into a grotesque face sporting a generous crown of skulls and other symbols he doesn’t recognize. Will gets the oddest feeling that the object is staring at him in an accusatory manner.

_ Apparently Lizzie’s things don’t like him either. _

It is beautiful though.

“That’s a k ī la,” he nearly jumps out of his skin, “or you could call it a phurba.”

He places a hand over his heart, shooting her a venomous look.

_ So much for being nice. _

“Jesus, give a guy a warning, would you?”

She rolls her eyes at him, but otherwise makes no attempt to acknowledge what he just said. His eyes are pulled back to the display case and for a moment, they stand there. The object feels like an odd blend of something magical and yet inexplicably natural. He wonders if he’s being affected by the heavy incense that’s drifting through the air, clogging his sinuses and messing with his mind.

“What does it do?” he says, mostly just to break whatever spell has wrapped itself around them.

Part of him expects her to mock him for not knowing, but when she looks at him, it’s with a hint of surprise. Like she forgot he was even here. 

Her smirk is light when she says, “It doesn’t  _ do  _ anything.”

“Right,” he lets the faux frustration seep into his voice. “What is it used for?”

She turns back to the dagger, voice neutral when she says, “Rituals in Vajrayana buddhism. It’s their symbol of wrath and is meant to cut through the three poisons: delusion and confusion, greed and attachment, and aversion and ill-will. Traditionally, the head was driven into the ground to chase off bad intentioned nature spirits.”

Will isn’t religious. He thinks that maybe if you travel far enough down his family tree, you might find some Catholics. Or maybe Protestants. Or Anglicans. Who knows? Definitely not him. Anyway, it’s never really mattered. But the way Lizzie talks about it, the awe in her voice… well, it makes it sound almost interesting. Interesting if for no other reason than to understand what people used to believe in and what they believe in to this day. 

“So psychics believe in Buddhism?” he only wonders if this question is offensive after he’s asked it.

_ Oh well, it’s not like she could possibly hate him  _ more _. _

Her eyes snap to his and she raises an eyebrow. It takes him a moment to realize that she’s surprised by his curiosity, not angry about it.

“Not necessarily,” she gestures to a series of crosses hanging across a different wall, “we use a range of different practices to understand the world.”

He cocks his head, “But then how do you know which one’s real? Which one actually works?”

“You’re thinking about it the wrong way,” she smiles, amused, “symbols and objects don’t have power because they come from the so called ‘right religion’. They have power because people believe they do.  _ That’s  _ what makes them useful to psychics.”

He considers this. On one hand, he has to concede that she has a point. That’s why certain paint splatters go for thousands of dollars. Or why people spend their life savings on a World Cup final. And also why Lizzie can sell all this crap. As long as  _ someone _ believes that it works, the ‘magic’ stays alive. 

On the other hand… “How can anyone believe in what you do if it’s so vague and ambiguous?”

Lizzie scowls at him, but before she can respond, Charlie’s voice rings out from the other end of the shop. “I picked one.”

She gives him a frosty glare before turning away without another word. He can almost feel the walls rising between them, blocking any kind of understanding they could’ve come to. He sighs and follows her, the weird feeling that he assumes comes from _ not belonging  _ settling in his stomach like a rock. But there’s something else there too. The weird rush he got when he brushed by her that first day. A rush reminding him that even though he doesn’t belong here,  _ something _ about this place feels inexplicably right. 

_ ‘You like her.’ _

The comment had been irritating because it was false. The next comment Charlie had made was even more irritating because it was (and still is) true. He  _ is  _ interested in Elizabeth Bennet, but not like  _ that _ . He’s interested in her because of the weird feeling he gets when she’s around, when he’s in her shop. All he knows is that he refuses to believe it’s some of that psychic crap that she would probably claim it is. He does want to know what’s actually causing it though, which is partly why he decided to come watch Lizzie perform her party trick.

_ Also, definitely to keep Charlie from spending his money. That boy will fall for anything, especially if it’s got the support of a pretty girl. _

When he looks over Charlie’s shoulder and at the counter in front of him, he sees two stacks of cards on the table. Charlie’s gripping another stack like it’s a goddamn lifeline and Will resists the urge to roll his eyes. The stack on Charlie’s left is black and white with imagery that is ghoulish yet childish at the same time, sending him  _ The Nightmare Before Christmas _ vibes that he doesn’t like at all. 

_ Okay, maybe he was a little scared of ‘The Nightmare Before Christmas’ as a kid. So sue him.  _

The other deck looks more traditional, with drawings that pull from medieval paintings. Will thinks it’s incredibly telling that Lizzie has a deck like this, considering the fact that most of the things people believed during the Middle Ages were bullshit. He can’t really see the deck in Charlie’s hand, but he does notice Lizzie smile knowingly when she sees what’s left on the table.

“Interesting choice,” she cocks her head. “Okay, follow me.”

Will guesses that this is all part of the act. She lets the client choose their deck because it makes them feel more in control. Makes the experience feel more personal. Makes the client feel more influential. And he can see in Charlie’s eyes that it’s clearly working. She hasn’t even done anything yet and he’s already looking down at the cards like they contain all the answers.

Lizzie leads them into a small room behind a beaded curtain that’s probably supposed to be  _ endearingly  _ tacky, but just comes off as tacky. There’s some incense burning on the edge of a round table draped in a geometric tablecloth, giving the whole room a stuffy, drugged quality. Two chairs rest on either side of the table and there are another two off to the side, probably for some kind of audience. The chairs are all antediluvian and large, with gold armrests and dark green upholstery.

_ He kind of feels like he’s in the Slytherin common room. _

All in all, he’s disappointed to say that it’s not  _ nearly  _ as gaudy as he thought it would be. Sure, the incense is a little much and the chairs were probably found in a dumpster and if not, then at some weird garage sale. But it’s less hollywood movie and more teenage girl trying out Satanism for the first time.

_ He’s really not sure if the latter is any better than the former… _

By the time his eyes are back on the table, Lizzie’s already settled in the chair on the far side. She motions for Charlie to sit down across from her. For a few moments, Will awkwardly stands at the edge of the room. Then he feels a tap on his shoulder and looks over to find Jane smiling at him. She walks over to the two spectator chairs and Will follows, feeling oddly thankful for the small gesture of kindness. 

The further he walks into the room, the stronger the odd feeling of rightness becomes and in a nearly involuntary action, his eyes are dragged across the room until they land on Lizzie. She’s already looking at him, back straight, legs crossed and knees tucked under the golden armrests. When his eyes meet hers, she holds the contact and he’s too shocked to turn away. A chill goes down his spine and he suddenly has an innate impulse to leave, to call an Uber and drive back to Pemberley where he can talk to Georgy to distract himself from… From what? What is it about this place that pushes him away and then desperately tries to pull him back in? 

_ Maybe she’s actually psychic. _

_ … Pfft, yeah right.  _

His thoughts are knocked off course when Lizzie’s eyes flick from his to Charlie. There’s a moment of suspension, a moment in which he feels lost without her eyes on his. Then, he realizes that he’s hovering inches above the chair and that Jane is looking at him with concern. He huffs and falls back into the seat.

Once everyone is properly settled, Lizzie starts, her voice surprisingly gentle and soothing. “Do you want me to do a quick crash course on tarot before I start?”

“Is that what you usually do?”

“Not really,” she shrugs. “Most people trust that I know what I’m doing.”

“Trusting a psychic is an oxymoron,” Will says and then immediately regrets the remark. He seems to speak a lot more than he thinks around Elizabeth Bennet.

“I guess I may as well teach him something they couldn’t teach him at Harvard,” Lizzie says, a mock smile plastered across her face. She doesn’t even bother looking at him.

“There are different types of tarot decks, but I use a standard American one. That means 78 major and minor arcana cards. Major arcana represent life lessons and there’s only 22 of them. The other 56 cards are the minor arcana, which describe day-to-day lessons. The minor arcana is split into four suits: cups, swords, pentacles and wands. These outline general human motivations. Each suit has ten numbered cards and four character cards represented by the page, the knight, the king and the queen. So 14 cards in each minor arcana. That’s pretty much all there is to it.”

“Really, is that all?” Will mutters sarcastically.

Charlie nods, “Yeah, that seems like a lot. How do you remember all of that?”

_ Leave it to Charlie to turn his sarcastic quip into a compliment. _

“Practice.” She hesitates a little before continuing, “I should warn you that my readings aren’t always… flattering. If the presence of others makes you uncomfortable, now would be the time for you to ask them to leave.”

“And you think  _ your  _ presence is more comforting than ours?” 

Lizzie looks at him cooly, “Charlie signed a contract that forbids me from sharing his reading unless he gives me permission.”

An awkward silence lingers as Will tries to think of something witty to say and Lizzie lets him stew in his mistake. Then Charlie claps his hands together and clears his throat, pulling all the attention back to him.

“Don’t worry, I’m hardly used to flattery,” Charlie laughs and looks over at Will, “ _ he’s _ never been worried about hurting my feelings.”

Lizzie cocks her head, but then shrugs lightly, “In that case, let’s start. Please shuffle the deck, split it into thirds and place them face down on the table.”

Charlie follows her instructions, excitement splitting his face as he spreads out the cards.

“What’s your job if Charlie’s doing all the work?”

Lizzie’s eyebrows furrow and she gives Will a small pitying smile, “The more Charlie does, the more specific his reading will be. His energy and life is transferred to the cards to improve the accuracy of the prediction. I interpret the cards based on my understanding of tarot and the readings I get from Charlie.”

“So what you’re saying…” Will’s eyebrows raise, “is that your job could be fulfilled by a google search.”

Lizzie snorts, “If you’re the person interpreting then I doubt it. I bet this table has more psychic ability. Charlie might have a little more success though.” Lizzie turns back to the table, looking over the three neatly made piles. She smiles at him warmly and Will gets the feeling that he’s getting just a glimpse of what she’s like with normal customers. When she smiles, she seems almost nice.

( _ He likes her smile.) _

_ Wait, what?! _

“Alright, flip over the top card on each pile and place it in front of its respective deck, then flip the entire deck over so that the bottom card is facing up.”

When Charlie gives her a confused look, she pulls out another deck and demonstrates for him and then he does it without a second thought. The moment he flips over the first card, the one on his left, Will feels something pass over the room. A weird buzz, a cord of energy circling through the walls and the floor, making everything vibrate just a little. It starts from the corners and slowly creeps towards him, until it finally hits his chair. He feels a spark of panic, the urge to leave, but something holds him down and he waits as the energy continues to crawl. It starts in his fingertips, feels a little bit like his hand has fallen asleep. Instead of restricting his movements though, he feels lighter, more able. It’s an incredible sensation and he feels it going straight for his chest, straight for his heart.

His eyes snap to Jane, expecting some kind of a reaction to what’s happening. But Jane looks absolutely unbothered, her eyes focused on Charlie, brow creased in worry. Charlie’s also calm and casual, a wide smile spreading over his face as usual. 

The only other person who seems even slightly affected by the change is Lizzie, whose eyes have a glassy, distant quality, like she’s not really in the room. Her lips are slightly parted and she’s looking down at the cards in amazement. Then her eyes snap up to his and her jaw falls open. He feels his heart rate spike and he holds her gaze. The feeling of amazement, of power, washes over him. He can tell these feelings aren’t his. But if they’re not, then whose are they?

_ Impossible. _

But when Charlie puts down the final card, Lizzie shakes her head a little and looks back at the table. She looks over them, pursing her lips, pretending to inspect them.

Finally, she looks back at Will, their eyes connecting for a second, a spark going through him when they do. Then she looks over to Charlie and she’s talking and Will has to tune out of the energy and into what she’s saying.

“The past,” she starts, her voice deeper, surreal, “is conflicting. Filled with heartbreak and success.”

Her arm stretches out delicately, a nail tapping against the first card on Charlie’s left. Seven clouds, seven chalices resting on each, seven objects within each one. A lady’s head and priceless jewels. A snake and a dragon.

“Reality and illusion are a frequent theme in your love life. You fall easily, are easily deceived.”

Will resists the urge to comment.  _ Of course _ Charlie is reckless in romance. He doesn’t need a psychic to tell him that.

Apparently that’s as specific as Lizzie is going to get because her fingernail traces up to the bottom card on top of the flipped pile. A woman riding a horse and holding what looks to be a tree branch. There’s a few people holding the same symbol behind her.

Lizzie considers it and carefully says, “Nonetheless, you’ve made a name for yourself. Built yourself up. You’re recognized yet modest about it.”

The vague bullshit coming out of her mouth is offset by the fact that she seems legitimately possessed.

_ All of this is an act. So clearly an act…  _

Her hands slide to the left, palm resting on the first card in the middle. 

“The present,” she murmurs. Her brows furrow and she looks around the room as though she’s forgotten where she is. The moment of panic that comes over him is shocking, mostly because he knows it’s entirely irrational. But for some reason,  _ Lizzie’s _ panic transfers over to him. He grips the armrests, knuckles turning white from the pressure.

_ None of this is real. There’s nothing wrong. _

Her gaze sweeps back to the cards. She lifts the card she’s holding, a wheel drawn at its center with winged animals peeking out at the edges, “The wheel of fortune is a major card, signalling long-term luck and a turning point in your life.”

Will watches closely as Charlie’s eyes flick to Jane and he tries not to roll his eyes. It’s not that he doesn’t like Jane. Sure, she’s a little bland and she’s definitely not as serious about Charlie as he is about her. But that’s besides the point, which is that Charlie rushes into shit like this head first, fuck all the consequences. He’s like a bull running at a red handkerchief held up by a matador. And then when the matador pulls the kerchief away (A.K.A. the girl breaks his heart), the bull (A.K.A. Charlie) comes crying to Will (A.K.A. Will).

_ He’s admittedly had one too many nights full of ice cream, shitty romcoms and crying. _

He looks over at Jane, who is still staring at Lizzie, completely oblivious to Charlie’s adoring gaze. Will feels mildly sick.

Turning his attention back to Lizzie, he pushes the thought out of his head as she begins to speak, “There’s a connection to your daily life. A change, a new relationship, maybe even new love and deep feelings of compassion.”

Darcy scoffs. Of course she’d say that. She  _ knows _ that Charlie and Jane just started dating. But he thinks it’s a little cruel of her to go as far as to say that there’s  _ new love _ in his life. Charlie’s feelings clearly aren’t entirely reciprocated and it’s a little mean of her to imply that they are just so that she can carry out some cheap act. 

He watches Lizzie’s eyes slip in and out of focus before shifting to the last pile on the table. The one on Charlie’s right. The future. He watches her closely, catches every shift as her face contorts into an expression of confusion and… concern? For a moment, her gaze breaks. She carefully tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, a nervous tick he recalls from the restaurant. Then she taps the first card, a woman sitting on a stool, one slender arm holding out a large sword.

“I see a choice. A choice strongly connected to someone you love,” her eyes slide over the room before catching, faltering yet again, when she gets to him. She stares him in the eyes, “Someone will try to influence your decision and I believe that you will heed their advice. Be careful.”

She holds his gaze for several seconds as the silence lingers. No one else seems to notice. When she finally looks away, he feels the energy drain out of him. He feels attacked. He feels like she’s somehow managed to include him in her wild fantasies and crazy ideas. 

_ He feels like she may be right. _

“I see this decision leading to disharmony, misalignment and loneliness,” she says lowly, her eyes never straying from the last card. “From there on, it will be up to you to figure things out.”

_ How convenient. _

Lizzie nods once and takes a deep breath before gathering the cards in one sweeping motion. She smiles, but the gesture is distracted, “That’s kind of how a tarot reading usually goes.”

Charlie is still looking at the table in awe and Jane is looking at Charlie with a look of apprehension, as though trying to decipher how he handled finding out his ‘future’. Will, on the other hand, couldn’t give less of a flying fuck what Charlie thought of it. Something doesn’t seem right.

“Kind of?” he asks.

Lizzie looks up and quirks an eyebrow at him, “What?”

“You said that’s  _ kind of _ how tarot goes?” he repeats. “Did something not go as planned?”

He sees the fire spark in her eyes, sees that she’s recognized his challenge. Distantly, he knows that he gets some kind of sick pleasure from riling her up. The anger she radiates is exhilarating.

She bends her head, breaking eye contact and taking an excessive interest in shuffling the deck, “That’s  _ exactly _ how it goes.”

There’s something odd about her tone and he knows, beyond a doubt, that she’s hiding something. But before he can push it, Charlie’s already gushing again.

“Wow!” he huffs out. “That was-”

“Bullshit?” Will supplies, still staring at Lizzie.

Charlie looks at Will, affronted, “ _ No _ . It was really,  _ really _ cool.”

Lizzie finally looks up, her face schooled into a small smile, “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I know it’s a little vague, but tarot predictions are mainly supposed to act as guidelines. Nothing is set in stone so it’s often difficult to pull out specifics.”

“As opposed to other psychic powers which do what exactly?”

Lizzie rolls her eyes at him and he feels himself relax just a little. All the weird, intense staring was kind of creepy. He’s probably more prepared to deal with irritated Lizzie than he is to deal with possessed Lizzie.

“Psychometry,” she tries to smile but it turns into a grimace. She’s clearly not over whatever was bothering her before. She hesitates, then smiles wickedly, the full effect finally coming out, “Now the fun starts.”

“Great!” Charlie exclaims. “What do I do?”

Lizzie shrugs, “You don’t really have to do anything. Is there anything on you that’s associated with a memory?”

Charlie scratches the back of his neck and tilts his head and thought. That’s when Will catches the flash of silver on his wrist. The watch that Will got him for his last birthday. The  _ expensive _ watch that he almost dropped into a bowl of fruit punch at his own goddamn party.

“Your watch,” Will says a little too quickly. He clears his throat, “I mean… your watch is associated with a memory.”

Charlie nods, setting his arm on the table and tugging up the sleeve, “Yeah, that’ll work.”

“That’s perfect,” Lizzie says, turning Charlie’s arm and spreading his palm out on the table. Will feels a pull and instinctively edges closer to the table. He stops when Lizzie shoots him another odd look. She cocks her head and then turns back to Charlie, dismissing him for what feels like the hundredth time today.

“Look at me,” she says to Charlie. Her fingers hover over the watch as she looks him in the eye. She releases his forearm and Will briefly wonders if it’s to keep the skin-on-skin contact from interfering with her connection to the watch. Then he realizes that’s a ridiculous thought.

Lizzie’s eyes close and her fingers move down to feel the watch. Right before her fingertips make contact with the smooth, solid face, Jane interrupts, sucking the silence out of the room.

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” her voice a little desperate, almost manic.

Lizzie exhales loudly, her eyes opening lazily.

Charlie looks over at Jane, concern written plainly over his features, “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jane stammers, looking over at Lizzie for support. Lizzie’s mouth quirks up in a smirk and Will narrows his eyes at her.

Lizzie either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She turns back to Charlie, “Ready?”

He hesitates for only a moment, looking back and forth between Lizzie and Jane. Then he nods and Lizzie grabs his arm again. This time, the build up isn’t nearly as elaborate. Lizzie closes her eyes, lets go of his arm, allows her fingers to hover over the watch. Then she lets her fingers come down on it. They move over the metal, quickly and precisely, getting a feel for the object. Her jaw tenses and she licks her bottom lip. Will resists the urge to follow the movement.

Finally, her eyes open and she sits back, crossing her arms and breathing deeply. She looks at Charlie, then at Jane, before her eyes settle on him. They stay there, overwhelming in their intensity. He didn’t notice the colour of her eyes before. He does now.

_ They’re green. _

“You got this for him,” she states plainly. “As a gift for his…” she pause to think. “For his birthday.”

“That’s right!” Charlie cries and Will can hear the disbelief and awe in his voice even though he can’t see it.

Lizzie’s eyes are still trained on his when she says, “There’s more. Charlie almost broke it, dropped it in a bowl of punch at a surprise birthday party.” She cracks a smile and it’s only a little distracting, he swears, “His sister… Caroline? She caught it before it fell in.”

_ She’s right… _

_ She’s fucking right?! _

“Amazing,” Charlie breathes out.

“More like impossible,” Will spits, turning on Jane, “you told her this story?”

Jane shakes her head, eyeing Lizzie and Charlie warily, “I didn’t know it.”

He looks back at Lizzie, dazed and confused by the turn of events. She’s not looking at him this time. Instead, she shuffles the deck obsessively, cards passing over cards passing over cards. When the phone rings, she literally jumps out of her seat, the cards falling out of her hands and onto the ground. She stalks over to the landline on the counter and picks it up in a way that he thinks is a tad aggressive. 

Everything is silent as they wait for Lizzie to speak. When she does, her voice is exasperated, tired and heavy, “ _ What _ ?  _ What’s  _ happening?”

Will swears that he can hear someone yelling over the receiver from halfway across the room. At one point, Lizzie sighs and places a hand on the counter, letting her head swing down, “Yeah, okay… Jesus, I said okay. We’re coming.”

She pulls the speaker away from her face and this time, Will can definitely hear someone over the phone. Lizzie eyes the phone distastefully before hanging up. The voice cuts out and the silence prevails. 

“I’m really sorry Charlie,” she sighs as she walks over to them, “but my sister just called and we have some kind of family emergency to tend to.”

Her sister stands up from her chair, “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” she growls, “Lydia wouldn’t stop yelling.”

Jane bites her bottom lip before nodding and walking over to Charlie, “I’m really sorry for this. Do you want me to give you guys a ride back to your apartment.”

Will looks over at Lizzie who’s down on the floor, picking up the cards. She scowls at her sister’s proposition, but stays quiet.

“That’s okay,” Charlie smiles at her and turns to Will. “We’ll be fine.”

Jane comes over to shake his hand, “It was nice to finally meet you.”

“Yeah, just fantastic,” Lizzie mutters, but it doesn’t seem like her heart’s really in it. Will can still feel it. The weird buzz. The  _ connection _ that he felt during the reading. He doesn’t believe it, but he also can’t deny feeling it.

“Nice to meet you too,” he smiles at Jane, ignoring Lizzie’s comment.

Lizzie and Charlie exchange niceties and then he gives her a nod which she returns in kind. A silent acknowledgment of the fact that neither of them want to shake hands or speak to each other.

As they walk out the door, Charlie turns back and says, “Thanks for the readings Lizzie! I can’t believe you knew what happened to the watch.”

Yeah, Will can’t believe it either. In fact, he’d go as far as to say that he  _ doesn’t _ believe it. But then, how had she known that it was a present from him? How had she known about the fruit punch and Caroline? There’s no way that she could be an  _ actual _ psychic, right?

_ Right? _

 

**Author's Note:**

> This quote: “[...] the future is a promise, not a guarantee. Promises can be broken” is from The Raven Cycle by Stiefvater. 
> 
> Also, just to be clear I don’t recommend going to psychics. I mean, go if you want, but I agree (although to less of a degree) with Darcy in this case.


End file.
